


Experiments

by hubblegleeflower



Series: Favourite Ficlets [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, First Time, John goes a little dfp on us, M/M, PWP, and not very plotty, more's the pity, not me, not us, pretty porny, still it should be fun to read about, um, well on Sherlock anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 13:46:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6660691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is getting the idea that John is getting ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Experiments

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr ficlet that I like too much to leave buried on Tumblr. First of a series.

John was giving Sherlock his _considering_ look. He had been all morning, sitting on the sofa, watching Sherlock move about the room, and attempt to focus on various activities. Usually Sherlock was able to ignore this look, or mock him out of it, but for some reason that wasn’t working today. He’d tried.

“Shut up, John.” He sniped from the table, behind the screen of his laptop. “It’s physically painful hearing you think.” But John kept _considering_ , and didn’t react.

A few minutes later, from where he was trying to tidy his music sheets, Sherlock tried again. “Your tiny little thoughts are going all everywhere. They're going to be murder to get out of the carpet.”

John smiled.“You never hoover anyway.” He was still _considering_.

“But do think of Mrs. Hudson, you selfish beast, and stop trying to _think.”_

John didn’t stop. Instead, his _considering_ look deepened into something more like _weighing_  or _evaluating,_ but for the slow smile that accompanied it, one that Sherlock, after a brief struggle with himself, elected to label _secretive_ (because he could not accept the other adjective that presented itself, which was _lascivious)._ (Sherlock had been unaware how far his own thoughts must have gotten away from him of late, to present him with such a word on no evidence whatsoever. He made a mental note to take himself in hand, and it was further testament to his own decline that he actually recognised his own innuendo there.) 

This was not John’s usual pattern, and Sherlock found himself quite unable to snap him out of it in the usual way. He staunchly refused to consider that he might not actually want him to.

John’s calculating gaze never wavered, though, and finally Sherlock, unable to focus even on the most superficial lab notes, had had enough. He flung himself out of his kitchen chair and turned to face his flatmate.

“If there is something you want to say, John, do get on with it.” 

“Nothing in particular.” John’s smile was as suggesti - as _enigmatic_ as it had been, and showed not signs of fading. It was intensely aggravating.

“Then why are you staring at me?” _Asking outright._ He hated having to do that.

And then something extraordinary happened. John rose from his spot on the sofa and walked - no, _stalked_ across the sitting room. “I’m thinking it’s time to try something new,” he said. His tone, Sherlock decided, was _conversational._  He decided that because it was ludicrous to call it _predatory._

_“_ Something…new?” _Conversational_ , he reminded himself when he heard his own tone. _You are_ **conversing** _. You are not_ **prey.** He cleared his throat. John was standing very close “What do you mean?”

“Well,” John began, his eyes roving over Sherlock’s face. “There are some things that I’ve been wondering for a while, and I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to find out.”

“Oh?” Sherlock asked stupidly. John’s eyes were on his mouth, now, and it was most undignified for his mouth to be open while his friend was staring at him. Nevertheless, it stayed open.

“Yes, but it hasn’t arisen, and I think I need a different approach. If I’m wondering things, I shouldn’t hang around and wonder, I should just go ahead and _find out._ ” John’s head tilted, leaned in, as if to view Sherlock’s mouth from another angle. Or his neck, perhaps.

“Obviously that’s what science is for.” This was safe ground. Sherlock retreated to it.

“My thoughts exactly.” And here John’s smile showed teeth, and was mere inches from Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock could feel his _breath_. His mind supplied all the words now, in a rush, without allowing him a veto.  _Lascivious. Suggestive._ _Predatory._ But he did not back away.

Wide-eyed, Sherlock asked, “What - what sorts of things?” Perhaps he should have asked sooner.

“For example,” John said, drawing himself closer to the alarmed detective, “If I want to know how deeply into my mouth I could draw your lower lip without hurting you…” Here Sherlock gasped, mouth open, eyes closed. “… _I should just try it and see.”_

And when Sherlock still did not pull away, he did. He tilted his face up to Sherlock’s expectantly, and there was nothing Sherlock could do apart from lean down and present his mouth for John’s inspection.

And _oh,_ if this was science…

Because here was John’s mouth on his mouth, claiming and pillaging, a rough tongue (and tongues were smooth and wet, should not be rough, but John’s was rough) invading and exploring, messy and thorough. And here were John’s lips closing, as promised, around Sherlock’s full lower lip and sucking lightly, then less lightly, drawing it into his mouth, then releasing, then drawing it in again, harder, more deeply. He pulled it across the threshold of his teeth this time, and kept pulling, and Sherlock didn’t stop him, he could feel the pull, could feel the ghost of pain, but didn’t stop him, and when John’s teeth took over the pull, Sherlock moaned deeply into John’s mouth, and when John abruptly bit him, he cried out, but didn’t pull away.

When John finally did loosen the hold he had on Sherlock’s mouth, they leaned together for a time, breathing unsteadily together.

“Tell me,” Sherlock panted, when he could speak, “Is there anything else you’ve been wondering?” He was trying for  _sardonic_ , but it came out as purely eager. He didn’t care.

John’s smile returned, the hunter’s smile. “Oh, yeah.” He began at Sherlock’s neck, kissing and biting to punctuate his words. “I want to know where the skin of your neck bruises most easily when I suck marks into it, and whether I can make darker marks there or on your thighs.” He shifted his hands, stroking down Sherlock’s body and over the swell of his buttocks. “I want to know how much of your arse I can gather into each of my hands when I pull it apart. I want to know what parts of your chest I can reach to kiss when your legs are wrapped around my waist.” One hand wandered around the front of Sherlock’s body now, and settled palm downwards against his erection, “And what the inside of your foreskin feels like when my tongue slips under it. I predict that the head of your cock will fit perfectly into the roof of my mouth, but I’d need to check, Sherlock, I’d need to measure, and I’ve been wondering what the right angle for my jaw would be for me to get my mouth all the way down to the base of your hard cock.” John’s voice was stuttering now, and Sherlock’s was banished completely, as he moaned and panted under John’s hands and mouth, as he brought his hips forward to grind against John’s, as he gripped John’s shoulders with no finesse and no intention beyond stopping himself from falling.

“I want to know if I can take you apart, Sherlock, or if I’ll fall apart myself before the experiment is completed. But I know one thing, and that’s that I don’t want to go even one more day, even five more minutes, without knowing.”

With an effort of intense willpower, Sherlock pulled himself back from John’s questing hands and mouth, but only enough to take his hands and draw him, stumbling, towards the bedroom. He smiled.

“Come find out, then.”


End file.
